


A Good Face

by Thuri



Series: The Mind is for Seeing, the Heart is for Hearing [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Deaf Character, Establishing a universe, Gen, Pre-Slash, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thuri/pseuds/Thuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The same eye flick, but no change in expression. If Phil didn’t know any better, he’d say the kid hadn’t heard him at all.</p><p>Hadn’t heard...shit. <i>Did</i> he know any better?</p><p>“So I collect Captain America trading cards,” Phil went on, careful to keep his tone and manner exactly the same, going with his gut. At worst, the kid would think he was a dork and let his guard down. “Action figures, too. I’ve got the whole ’88 reproduction line and a lead on some of the original comics.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Face

**Author's Note:**

> First in a series of possibilities for how Clint may have gone deaf in the movie-verse. A five times series, if you will...though perhaps without the plus one.
> 
> There may be more chapters to this, there may not, depending on the co-operation of the muses!
> 
> And thanks to [**isisanubis**](http://isisanubis.livejournal.com/) for the beta!!
> 
> And in the interest of full disclosure, no, I'm not deaf. I've done a lot of research as well as going by what I know from my own life and friends, but there are times this is likely going to be inaccurate and not fall within the experience of deaf/hard of hearing people in real life, either due to my ignorance, to conscious choices made by setting this in a world far more technically advanced than ours, by holding to comics canon that is in itself inaccurate already, or by making decisions on what it best serves the story to dwell on. 
> 
> I mean no disrespect or offense and can only beg the patience of those that know better. I hope you enjoy!

“Do we have an ID?” Phil asked, frowning at the security footage in front of him, of a sullen teenager in an interrogation room, shoulders hunched, hands wrapped around his paper coffee cup.

“Clinton Francis Barton,” Sitwell replied, handing over the tablet, the file pulled up. “His prints were in the system. Eighteen--barely. Orphaned at six--his father was a drunk, drove the car off the road with his mother inside, killed them both. In the foster system until he was twelve, ran away and they lost track of him. Too busy with the younger kids to pay attention to teenagers.”

“Why’d we pull him in?” Phil asked, glancing over the contents of Barton’s file, sparse though it was. Not much to go on...reports of parental abuse that were never proven, decent school records when he was young, grades dropping off as he got older, nothing past the time he took off.

“He’s been working Carson’s Carnival,” Sitwell replied, shrugging slightly. “With Buck Chisholm.”

Phil whistled softly. That explained it, then. They’d been looking for Trickshot for quite awhile. “So he actually ran away and joined the circus? You don’t see that much these days.”

“Not often,” Sitwell agreed. “Word is he’ll roll...but he won’t talk to us.”

Phil nodded absently, still going through the file. “Barton, Barton...why does that sound familiar?”

“He’s got an older brother, Charles. That FBI agent who went AWOL last year after getting shot on an op. They tried to find him, but...nothing. According to the file, he might make things worse.”

Phil frowned, setting the tablet down. “Looks that way. So Fury wants...what?”

Sitwell shrugged. “He wants the kid to talk, and he thinks you’ve got the best chance of getting him to. You’ve got...a good face.”

Phil snorted. “You mean I look less threatening than a pre-serum Steve Rogers,” he muttered, once again wishing he could be ruggedly imposing, not look like a baby-faced teenager.

“You said it, Coulson, I didn’t,” Sitwell grinned. “And God, you’re a geek.”

“Don’t spread it around too far,” Phil returned with a slight grin. “Fine. I’ll do what I can, but I don’t see why Fury thinks I’ve got a shot at connecting with today’s youth.”

Sitwell shrugged. “Maybe he thinks you’re still one of them.”

Reflecting that he hadn’t even been one of them when he’d been Barton’s age, Phil shrugged back. At least his experience faking it back then helped him in going undercover now.

He slid a pad of paper and pencil into his pocket--on the off chance the kid did decide to talk to him, he wanted his own notes to supplement the recording. Any info Barton might have they could definitely use. Chisholm was connected with a whole slew of unsavory acts and so far he’d proved too slippery to pin down. It didn’t seem like him to take on an assistant, but if he’d messed up Phil was ready to take advantage.

Slipping in his ear piece, he glanced at the door to the room where they were holding Barton. No one way glass here, just cinderblock walls and a couple hidden cameras monitoring things. Sitwell had his eyes on the monitor, his own ear piece in place. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Phil replied, smoothing his suit coat. A good face. Christ.

He pulled the interrogation room door open, stepping into the room and letting the door fall shut behind him. The kid, _Barton_ , neither flinched or looked up, still bent over his cup, his back to Phil.

“Well, Mr. Barton, it’s looks like they’ve already offered you quite a laundry list,” Phil said, waiting for some-- _any_ \--reaction. Good face or not, he wasn’t wasting time with the good cop approach, not when it’d already failed. “Room, board, immunity, protection...I’m interested to see what you think you’re holding out for.”

Nothing.

Phil frowned internally, walking further into the room and around the table. Barton flinched, hard, upsetting the empty cup the moment Phil came around him. Intense blue eyes tracked him as Phil crossed to the opposite wall. He leaned back against it, studying the kid. “How much do you really think your information’s worth?”

Barton’s eyes flicked down, then up again, and Phil saw his lips tighten slightly. But he didn’t answer.

Phil sighed. “Look, we’re the _good_ guys. I know you’ve been through a lot, but we actually _can_ protect you from him. But only if you help us.”

The same eye flick, but no change in expression. If Phil didn’t know any better, he’d say the kid hadn’t heard him at all.

Hadn’t heard...shit. _Did_ he know any better?

“So I collect Captain America trading cards,” Phil went on, careful to keep his tone and manner exactly the same, going with his gut. At worst, the kid would think he was a dork and let his guard down. “Action figures, too. I’ve got the whole ’88 reproduction line and a lead on some of the original comics.”

“What are you _doing_?” Sitwell hissed.

“Playing a hunch,” Phil replied, in the same tone. “When you said Barton wouldn’t talk, did you mean he wasn’t giving us what we wanted, or that he just wasn’t _talking_?”

Again, Barton just glanced at him, no recognition in his face, no sign he noticed Phil wasn’t even talking to him any longer.

“Uh...not talking,” Sitwell admitted, after a quick second.

“Sitwell, why didn’t your guys see fit to mention the kid’s deaf?” Phil asked, watching Barton closely as he asked. But he didn’t respond with anything other than the shuttered glare Phil was beginning to suspect was hiding pure terror.

“He’s _what_?”

“Fury is going to kill you,” Phil said pleasantly, pulling out the pad and pencil, sinking into the chair across from Barton. He flipped to the first page and printed a question, pushing it across the table.

**Can you hear me?**

Barton frowned slightly, but looked down--and the change that came over him was remarkable. He slumped, all at once, the wary sullenness disappearing as he raked a hand back through his sandy hair. He met Phil’s eyes and shook his head, his lips forming a silent “no.”

Yep. Fury was going to have a field day with whoever had screwed the intel this badly. Obviously Barton didn’t read lips, either... _Do you know ASL?_ Phil signed.

Barton’s brow furrowed, quick eyes following Phil’s hands, but he shrugged at the end. Okay then. The kid could obviously read, at least...they’d go from there.

Phil shifted his chair halfway around the table to sit next to Barton, snagging the pad of paper once more. **I’m Phil Coulson. Do you know why you’re here, Clinton?**

He offered the pencil and paper, smothering a smile when Barton immediately scratched out the last two letters of his name. “Clint, then,” Phil murmured to himself.

Barton’s answer came in strong, bold writing and he thrust it back, eyes meeting Phil’s challengingly. **Fuck, no. Got picked up, talked at, held here. Who _are_ you people? What do you want?**

Jesus. What a way to make a first impression on the kid. Phil sighed, shaking his head. **I’m sorry _,_** he wrote quickly, tapping the pad to emphasize it. **No one knew you were deaf.**

Barton snorted, rolling his eyes, but seemed to relax, slightly, as Phil continued to write. He gave him a quick overview of SHIELD, who they were and what they did. Barton reached for the pencil after a few moments.

**You want Buck.**

It wasn’t a question, but Phil nodded when Barton raised an eyebrow and pointed to the words. **Yes, we do. Can you help us?**

Barton hesitated, tapping his fingers against the pad, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Phil wished he could help tip the internal struggle the kid was going through in SHIELD’s favor, but he stayed silent and still, letting him work it out himself. **Yes,** he wrote at last. **But he’ll kill me if he finds out.**

Somehow, Phil didn’t think Barton was exaggerating, teenager or not. He met Barton’s eyes, hoping his own showed what they should. They’d given the boy very little reason to trust them...but they needed whatever he had.

 **We can protect you** , Phil wrote. **Give you a place to live, food,** he hesitated, but then scrawled in, **medical attention** as well. ****

Barton hesitated again, for long moments, before picking up the pencil. **Is there some place I can shoot my bow?**

Phil blinked, thrown by the request, but nodded in answer. Shouldn’t be that big of a surprise, Chisholm was said to be an expert shot with a range of different weapons and if he’d taught Barton it made sense the boy would want to keep up with it. For his own protection, if nothing else. **You any good?** he asked.

To his further surprise--and delight--Barton grinned fiercely. **I rock**.

Phil snorted. **Believe that when I see it.**

Barton’s grin widened. **Hey, you’re looking at The Amazing Hawkeye. Have some respect.**

Phil laughed, pleased the kid seemed to be relaxing a little. Maybe this wouldn’t be a total disaster, after all. **I’ll see what I can do about range access for you. Should I get something drawn up for you to sign?**

Barton stared down at the words for a moment, before grabbing the pen, his answer sure and strong, for all that his lip was still caught between his teeth. **Yes.**

Phil nodded, standing and leaving the pad with Barton. He’d get word out to the rest of SHIELD on how to talk to the boy soon enough. He held his hand out to Barton, who stared at it for a moment before reaching up and shaking it. His handshake was warm and firm, his fingers covered in unfamiliar callouses.

“Welcome to SHIELD, Mr. Barton,” Phil said, more for the benefit of the cameras than anything else. His own voice sounded odd after the enforced silence, loud in the quiet of the room.

Barton, for his part, shrugged and gave a half-smile, a silent response to Phil’s words.

Phil slipped out of the room, absolutely ready to take down whoever he had to on the boy’s behalf. They’d almost lost Barton and any intel he might have because someone hadn’t paid enough attention. “Sitwell, I want to know who the hell did recon on this,” he spat as he pushed open the door to the observation room.

Only to find Director Fury already there. “It’s being looked into, Agent Coulson.”

“Good,” Phil replied sharply, refusing to be cowed by the tall man’s presence. “That kid in there was scared to death for no good reason. We’re lucky he’s willing to talk to us at all.”

“You mean that he’s willing to talk to _you_ ,” Fury pointed out, smirking slightly. “Draw up an agreement for him, Phil and get him quarters. He’s responding to you, so he’s your problem for the duration. Find out what he knows and keep him alive and cooperative until he can tell it to a jury. Understood?”

Phil sighed, thinking of the mountain of work on his desk, the field position he’d been fighting for...and mentally set it all aside. It’d still be there when this was over. “Yes, sir. Permission to haul his ass to medical?”

“Granted. Now get busy.”

* * *

“There’s no mention of it in his file,” Sitwell said, sighing as he dropped his spoon. “Don’t ask me how the system missed it, but apparently they did. Either that, or he’s gone deaf since running away.”

Phil didn’t answer, taking small bites of his sandwich. He’d formed his own conclusions as to the likely origin of Barton’s disability--mainly from the hints of abuse in his file and the decline in grades before he’d entered the care system. He knew there were some shithole foster situations out there and even in a better one, the quiet child Barton’s file had reported him to be would’ve been a godsend to overworked foster parents. Especially since he had his older brother to look after him. It wasn’t that big a surprise Barton’s hearing loss had slipped through the cracks, especially if the boy had been going out of his way to hide it.

None of which excused the SHIELD agents for missing it.

“Whenever it happened, he appears completely non-verbal now,” Phil pointed out, interrupting Sitwell’s soliloquy of excuse. “Your team needs more training. Next time we might have a body on our hands, not a grudging ally.”

“You’re telling me,” Sitwell grumbled. “Heads are going to _roll_.”

Phil snorted softly. Sitwell was good, definitely...but this would be a good wake-up for him. And, thankfully, it’d worked out. They’d been damn lucky. “We’re still coming out ahead. Barton’s got info enough to put Chisholm away for good. Apparently the man thought deaf and mute meant stupid.”

“Kid’s smart?” Sitwell asked, raising an eyebrow.

“He sees _everything_ ,” Phil replied, handing over the sheaf of papers. Barton’s stark printing covering both sides of them. “And Chisholm didn’t bother to hide from him.”

Sitwell grinned, looking over the information. Dates, contacts, payouts, targets--Phil was still amazed at what Barton had put down. For starters, he’d said. “Son of a bitch.” 

“Exactly,” Phil agreed. “Barton’s got good eyes and a damn good memory. If even half of this pans out...”

“Trickshot’s little side business comes crumbling down,” Sitwell agreed. “Nice. Where’s the kid now?”

“Medical,” Phil replied, folding his paper napkin and covering the remains of his lunch with it. “He’s undernourished, might be hiding injuries, and I want to see what can be done about his hearing.”

Sitwell raised an eyebrow again, but whatever he’d been about to say was cut off by Phil’s phone.

“Coulson.”

“Hey, Phil, it’s Kate,” came the answer. “Thought you’d like to know the test results on your foundling.”

“Thanks, doc,” Phil replied, nodding to Sitwell as he gathered the remains of his lunch. “I’ll be right down.”

She signed off and Phil dumped his trash as he left the cafeteria, trying to convince himself not to make plans before he had all the information he needed. He couldn’t plot out a course until he had points of departure and arrival, after all. So instead he tried to decide how to outfit the SHIELD issue living quarters Barton had been given, debating between game systems until he arrived in the medical wing.

Kate Goodman, a small redhead with a no nonsense attitude and no hesitation with sedation, was waiting for him. “There you are. God, Phil, where’d you dig up this kid?”

“A carnival midway,” Phil replied, following her to her office. “Did he give you any trouble?”

“He doesn’t like doctors,” Kate replied, picking up a tablet as she settled behind her desk. “He never actually _resisted_ , but I swear...it was like treating a wild animal. I kept expecting him to bolt for the door.”

“He’s been through a lot,” Phil said carefully, mildly disturbed at how protective he felt. It wasn’t a good idea to get attached...but there was no question Barton deserved better than he’d gotten from them so far.

“That, at least, I found out.” Kate pulled up Barton’s chart, handing it over to him. “Let’s take it from the most obvious on down. Your boy’s eighty percent deaf in both ears. Judging from the other evidence collected, I’d say it’s likely the result of childhood abuse, not something naturally occurring.”

Phil winced. “Damn...is there anything that can be done for him?”

“He should respond well to hearing aids,” Kate replied. “I’ve got a pair on order for him right now.”

“So he was abused?” Phil asked, clenching his jaw slightly. It was no real surprise, wasn’t even that uncommon...but it still pissed him off.

“Either that or he made a habit of breaking bones as a small child,” Kate replied, pulling up a set of x-rays. “He has more than a few healed rib fractures, some of them almost as old as he is. Between the physical evidence and his distrust of medical personnel, I think it’s a given.”

Phil let out a soft breath, forcing himself to calm down as he nodded. Hell, Barton’s file already listed his parents as dead...getting angry at them now wouldn’t accomplish anything. “What about more recently? How’s his current health?”

“He needs to eat better,” Kate said, shrugging. “Like the rest of us. But he’s in fairly good health. Get him some vegetables and run him through the junior agents training course a few times and he’ll be fine.”

Phil nodded, still scanning the information in front of him. “So no physical reason for the mutism, then?” he asked, finding no mention of it.

“None,” Kate confirmed. “He may have gone deaf before he learned to talk, or he may have stopped because he couldn’t hear himself. Or he may just not be talking to _us_. That’s for pysch to tell you, if you want to get him up there. But physically he’s fine. He yelped when I didn’t warm up the stethoscope--sounded normal to me.”

“You’re a hard woman, Kate,” Phil said, chuckling softly. “All right. How long until those hearing aids come in?”

“A few days, maybe a week,” Kate replied. “I put a rush on them, Phil, it’s usually a lot longer,” she added when he opened his mouth. “You can keep writing for him until then...and probably a few weeks after. It’ll take him time to adjust.”

“And see about a sign language class,” Phil agreed. He’d learned it himself in college--a second language credit and one that let him communicate silently. It’d give Barton another option, if he was without his hearing aids, to make certain this didn’t happen again. “Right. Thanks, Kate.”

“Any time,” Kate replied. “Now get him out of my hair, will you? He’s in room two.”

Phil chuckled again as she bent her head over her paperwork. He let himself out, heading for the exam room she’d indicated.

Baron sat on the exam bed, tossing tongue depressors at the plastic container they’d no doubt come from, set up on the floor across the room. Phil paused, watching for a moment. He couldn’t say how good the boy might be with a bow, but not a one of the wooden projectiles missed the target.

He’d love to see if the accuracy carried over to knives--or bullets.

Shaking away the thought, he pushed the door open, nothing the way Barton turned, his eyes immediately flicking over, scanning. But even startled as he must’ve been, the latest missile found its mark.

Very impressive.

Barton dropped the remaining tongue depressors, sliding off the bed and raising his eyebrow at Phil. He looked tired, if Phil was any judge, and he had to be starving by now. Phil pulled a fresh pad of paper from his pocket. **Want to go to your rooms, get something to eat?**

Barton nodded, eagerly, already heading out of the room. Phil smiled to himself, glad he’d judged correctly. He caught up with Barton--who was holding the door, his eyebrow raised expectantly--and led him through the corridors from medical to the boy’s new quarters. He opened the door for him and handed over the key. “This is it,” he said without thinking.

Barton didn’t appear to notice, already exploring the rooms. A living area, bedroom--more of an alcove off the main area than an actual room--kitchenette and bathroom. They matched Phil’s set, reached through the adjoining door. Barton examined everything, before finally kicking off his shoes and opening the refrigerator.

It was empty. By the time he’d noticed--and made a face--Phil had managed to scrawl a question on the whiteboard he’d requested be put in the room. **What do you want to order? Anything in the city.**

Barton squinted at him, but smiled a little when Phil nodded. He dropped onto the couch, obviously thinking, and Phil took the opportunity to sink into the nearby armchair, loosening his tie, just slightly. Playing bodyguard to the boy was going to be...interesting. Fury had made it quite clear that keeping Barton alive and cooperative was his top priority.

Keeping him _entertained_ was probably going to be the death of him. What did teenagers _like_ , anyway? Would one who’d spent the last six years in a carnival even care about any of that? He hadn’t related to them when he’d _been_ a teenager, and he didn’t see that changing now.

Would anything at all keep him from thinking Phil was an utter and complete _dork_?

Probably not. But Phil Coulson had been given an assignment, and damn it, Phil Coulson didn’t let anything stand in the way of _completing_ an assignment.

Something he firmly repeated to himself, when Barton requested chili cheese dogs with extra onions.

* * *


End file.
